


bid me run, and i will strive with things impossible

by savanting



Series: Beware the Ides of January [1]
Category: Secret Society of Second-Born Royals (2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Disney Royalty, Gen, Good Girls Gone Bad, Modern Royalty, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Princes & Princesses, References to Shakespeare, Royalty, Short One Shot, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, interconnected One shots, villain origin story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savanting/pseuds/savanting
Summary: January's greatest regret is that she was born second, and her entire life has hinged on this small consequence. (Part 1/9)
Relationships: January & Original Male Character
Series: Beware the Ides of January [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970344
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	bid me run, and i will strive with things impossible

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any Disney properties. I saw _Secret Society of Second-Born Royals_ weeks and weeks ago, and - wouldn't you know it - all I wanted to do was write a villain origin story for January as soon as the movie was over. I still don't know if I like what I came up with, but I hope you humor me by sticking along for the ride.
> 
> The title comes from lines in the play "Julius Caesar" by William Shakespeare.

January had always been good at waiting. Even in the birthing room of her mother, the queen, January had not been eager enough to enter the world: spare seconds ticked away between the arrival of January and her older brother, August.

It was something her father had never quite failed to joke about.

“August was raring for the crown even in the womb,” their father would say with a chuckle while both August and January shared equally disgusted looks, focusing instead on the use of the word _womb_ being voiced right at breakfast rather than the implication that even as fetuses there had been a royal competition in progress within the queen’s body.

Their mother, who always looked so tired and drawn in the mornings, just shook her head as she split a poached egg on her plate. January watched the yolk ooze out as if it were blood from a wound; she looked away as her stomach squirmed. “Dear, I think the children could do without the exposition this morning.”

The king offered a smile beneath his bushy mustache. “We have the finest children in all the land, my sweet,” he said, and he even tousled August’s brown hair. January couldn’t help watching with some envy; her father barely even patted her head when she showed him her good marks on all the royal tutors’ tests.

 _You have the finest daughter in the land,_ January would think years later, _yet you never paid her the attention you did your first-born son._

In any other castle in any other kingdom, January might have grown up to be an ambassador or an advisor or even an everyday politician – but there was the rub: she would always be beholden to her brother’s court.

But when she was young, a child of nearly age ten, all she knew was that _queen_ was a word she would never be able to claim.

*

The royal tutors always recorded that January was impeccable, tidy, and delightful in the classroom.

As for August – well, the tutors didn’t exactly _praise_ the young prince.

One man by the name of Manox would just shake his head as August ran from room to room in their designated study wing. A white sheet flowed behind August like a cape, a hastily-made paper crown tipped over his head. Yet the screams howling from August’s mouth were far from _princely_.

“I am going to be king of the world! The universe! Hear me roar!”

January kept her hands folded in her lap as she sat at her desk, even as her brother’s words clawed and raked at her brain. If she could have struck him without being punished, she would have done so faster than a viper striking out from the grass.

Manox made a _tsk_ -ing sound. “Why wasn’t your brother cut from the same vine as you, dear January?”

January just offered a demure smile. “My brother has his talents, and I have mine. There’s no use comparing us.”

 _You’ll only be disappointed if you expect more from August,_ she thought spitefully as the lesson resumed, Manox instructing her in terms of Greek and Latin origin. All royalty were to study the classical languages, though January supposed the most August would ever devote himself to was pig Latin. She could even imagine him, a full-grown king, addressing foreign leaders in the made-up language.

If _she_ were queen…

No. January would not go down that path. That line of thinking was so dangerous, especially for a second-born royal who would have no title other than what the elder royal would bestow.

She could not afford to be cast out of her kingdom, now or ever.

As a child, disownment may as well have meant abandonment and eternal loneliness.

Only when January was older would the idea feel like a fair exchange.

*

On the twins’ tenth birthday, August received a sword, one embossed with gold filigree on its hilt as well as the crest of their kingdom.

January’s gift was a pink ruffled dress that looked like it had been plucked from a child-sized doll.

As August struggled with releasing the sword from its scabbard as their father oversaw the process, their mother ushered January to a secluded corner of the room.

“For you, my darling,” the queen said, taking January’s hands and dropping a small golden locket into January's waiting palms. The young princess looked down to see the same family crest etched into the locket’s face. “Open it.”

January clicked open the locket – only to see one side that had a picture from their parents’ wedding while the other had a portrait photograph of August from the year prior when he had been dressed in a uniform that had failed to give him a princely air. That same day, January had been primped and polished into courtly attire as if she had been of marrying age; she remembered only how the clothes had scratched her skin for hours.

January’s fingers closed over the locket, and she wished she could have thrown it across the room.

Instead, she offered a bright smile to her mother. _Don’t disappoint her. Don’t disappoint her._ “It’s lovely,” she said.

“It’s to remind you what really matters,” her mother said, laying her hands atop January’s and squeezing them. January felt the locket pinch against her skin, its weight even more noticeable. “Whenever you’re in doubt, just look at these pictures. You will always know love here, and love will always guide your way.”

January nodded, and a rush of tears flooded her eyes.

As her mother dabbed at January’s cheeks with a handkerchief, the ten-year-old princess knew her tears had not been those of happiness or sadness – but rage.

August had received a sword, a weapon, to defend himself and his station. But January had gotten a gift of love – love that would save her? 

No.

It was the kind of love that would stifle her.

*

The birthday party that night was uneventful, especially since the adults that filtered through the room were less concerned with the children’s birthday celebration and more focused on making connections. January sat in a plush chair in a corner of the room, her polished black shoes reflecting her sullen expression back at her.

A few moments later, however, January jumped as an adult dressed in a black tuxedo sat beside her. She peered up at him discreetly, only to see that the man was already looking straight at her.

“You must be the little princess,” the man said, an easy smile on his face. One look at this man’s face told her enough: his eyes had the same tiredness she saw on her mother’s face almost every day. “What are you doing, hiding away here? Isn’t it your birthday today?”

January just stared at the man before saying, softly, “It’s my brother’s birthday too.”

The man just shook his head. “Does that mean it’s any _less_ your birthday because you have to share it?”

January didn’t know how to answer, and that was strange: she usually always knew how to answer the questions adults posed to her. But few ever really asked her _opinion_ on something.

“I suppose not,” she admitted. She kept peeking up at the man, whose gaze had migrated to the party-goers. He was strange in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and that alone bothered her because she could usually observe things other people might not notice. “Are you a prince, sir?”

If she couldn’t get answers by observation, then she would just ask questions.

The man chuckled, his hands folded loosely in his lap. “Not by choice.” He then cocked his head at her, his eyes glittering. “Do you mind having a brother?”

What an odd question.

January couldn’t help hesitating. “Not when he bosses me around or lords over me that he’s older,” she said.

To her surprise, the man nodded as if he could understand her in ways other adults wouldn’t. “Always a curse, to be the powerless second-born,” he said, his voice soft enough that January wasn’t sure at first that she heard him right.

Before she could ask another question, the man held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Princess January.”

 _I never said my name,_ she thought, but she took the man’s hand anyway and shook. “And you?” she asked, feeling bold enough to do so. “What should I call you?”

The man’s hand fell away from hers, and he stood up. “My name doesn’t matter,” he said, “but you’ll know someday.” He ducked his head in a bow. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

All January could do was stare after the man, her hand still held out in confusion, as he disappeared through the crowd of party-goers.

It would be a long time before she saw him again.


End file.
